


it’s a beginning (yeah, ours)

by cloudburst



Series: punch me please (i’m falling for u) [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: M/M, aka a really cute ufc lightweight, how luke met the person he’d love after jocelyn, they meet in a coffee shop how cliché
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 09:22:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13408218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudburst/pseuds/cloudburst
Summary: He goes from watching him fight on the computer to meeting him in a coffee shop. It isn’t the strangest thing that’s ever happened to Luke—really.AKA, the one where Luke meets an MMA fighter whose name he doesn’t know, but he somehow still manages to fall a little bit in love.





	it’s a beginning (yeah, ours)

**Author's Note:**

> ugh i’ve been obsessed with this idea forever

He watches the fight on his computer—in the Jade Wolf. Luke supposes that he could make up some crap about how he finds elegance in the way that a tan arm extends just far enough to clip his opponent in the face, right before he steps away, dodging a potential attack from the other, admittedly far pastier fighter. He supposes, no, he knows that he’d be lying. Sometimes, and Clary or Simon or someone, would berate him for it—but it was good to just watch two dudes beat the crap out of each other. 

Luke wouldn’t say he’s an avid watcher of anything UFC related. He’s more of a casual, I know who the lightweight champion is about half the time, kind of guy. 

With the thought of Clary cringing at the depravity of the sport, he sits back in his dingy booth and enjoys the effortless victory over the man he’s dubbed “glue.” Because glue is paste. And the guy was pasty. Yet, all that is beside his point.

When the crowd chants the name of the French fighter, at least Luke thinks he’s French—can’t really hear his name or see any indication of his nationality at the moment—Luke swears he falls a little bit in love with the smile on his face, as his hand is lifted into the air. 

The young man’s tongue tastes the blood on his cracked lip.

* * *

He can’t really say anything as he works out in the sparsely populated Brooklyn gym—and he means that, literally, as his fists connect with the punching bag, as it swings around and there’s a roundhouse kick strong enough to crack ribs. He’s too focused—believes that’s a good thing. He may have defeated Jacob Dunn last night, but he can’t afford to let his guard down. _Another punch. Another kick. The bag swings. His palm connects harshly with hard material._

He needs to be in top shape for his fight against Thiago Da Silva, a man who is unfortunately also known as the Brazilian Wrecking Ball. He may be a lightweight as well, but Gabriel has no qualms believing that Thiago could run him over like a truck. So he fights—spars with the punching bag until the hard beating of his heart and the pounding of his fists and feet become one. It’s a music he’s used to, a song he’s always enjoyed: one of his own creation. 

He stops when someone clears their throat behind him. When he turns around, it’s not what he was expecting, but he can’t say he’s upset about that. 

A little girl looks up at him, standing next to, and gripping the hand of a lovely—attractive—man Gabriel can only assume is her father. He waits another moment, dripping sweat and unwrapping his hands, before the man speaks. 

“This is my daughter, Shaniya. I was picking her up from the playroom after my workout and—“ The man takes a breath, looking down to the girl with a smile. Gabriel finishes unwrapping his hands, flexing his reddened, split knuckles. “—she saw you, and asked if she could come out and meet you.”

Gabriel nods, smiling as soon as the man finishes speaking, going down into a relaxed squat to be at the girl’s eye level. She’s smaller than he’d first realized—no older than six or seven. “Hi, Shaniya. I’m Gabriel.” 

She smiles in a way that can only be described as shy, letting go of her father’s hand to take a step closer to Gabriel. He realizes she’s wearing a branded UFC shirt; on the back, he knows it will show his last name: LAURENT, across her small shoulders. Shaniya nods at him, and for a moment, Gabriel thinks that there is nothing left for him to achieve. “I know,” she says. 

“How old are you, Shaniya?”

“Ten! I’m just small.” She pushes out a huff of air, and her father seems relieved at how well their interaction is going—Gabriel at her level, Adidas sweatpants clinging to his legs—though neither he nor Shaniya pay the girl’s father any mind. 

“Small people can do big things. I’m pretty small myself, you know.” And Gabriel knows it’s a platitude, but the way Shaniya’s face lights up tells him everything he needs to know about why this ten year old girl is here in front of him. 

“I know you are!” It’s an exclamation—an excited one, conveying her disbelief that Gabriel would imply for even one second she was unaware of the fact that her idol was only 5’ 8”, weighing in at around 150 pounds. Of course she’d know! “I want to ask, is it okay, if I hug you?”

Gabriel laughs as Shaniya’s dad splutters. He looks dangerously close to passing out. 

“Of course it’s okay, if it’s okay with your dad.” The smile he’d worn earlier only grows wider, if that was possible. “You do need to know, though, I am pretty sweaty.”

Shaniya fixes her dad with a look that carries as much weight as a ten year old could possibly convey through the most minimal eye contact—and he nods his head okay, like he can’t believe that Gabriel Laurent is here in front of him, with his kid. Gabriel has never really understood the hype. The hype surrounding himself, that is—the twenty-two year old scrappy kid from France, who worked his way up through the ranks of the UFC quickly, and without remorse. 

Shaniya hugs him, her tiny arms around his neck. He offers to take a picture with her—her dad nodding emphatically, in agreement of course. He tells her that she can do whatever she puts her mind to, and that seems to be the most cliché platitude of all. But he says it anyway, knows that it will help this small girl to hear it. 

“If you and your mom or dad want, I teach a free self-defense class here when I have time. Next session is for kids, and it’s next week, 4 PM.” 

She smiles, and says she wants to come. Her dad smiles, and says he’ll put it in his phone.

After they’ve left, Gabriel Laurent smiles, and thinks about his upcoming fight against Thiago Da Silva. For now, he re-wraps his hands, and begins again.

* * *

Luke knows it’s cliché—mundane, even for his calibre of downworlder—to say that it happened in a coffee shop. He’d stopped in for a quick cup at this random place in Brooklyn, thinks it was called something stupid really, and ordered his Colombian blend with two sugars. He’d also grabbed one for Ollie, considerate person and partner that he was—even at the times he couldn’t really stand to be around her. 

It wasn’t until he’d placed the two cups down on a table, and was reaching to pick up some extra sugar packets for Ollie (you could never be too sure with her), that he fucked up—monumentally, catastrophically, and perfectly. He turned, coffees in hand and there was _definitely_ something solid, knocking the coffees out of his grip, to the floor. In the very same moment Luke noticed the light iced coffee that most definitely wasn’t his splattering across an even lighter white t-shirt that Luke was absolutely positive didn’t belong to him.

It _did_ belong to a young man who looked vaguely familiar, though at the time, Luke couldn’t place him. He’d also admit to himself, for the slightest moment, that he was beautiful—short brown hair, with dark hair and dark eyes, and kind of short himself. Luke spoke, as if his life depended on it. “I’m so—sorry!” Splutters. What? Calm down, Garroway. “Is there any way I can make this better, about your coff—“

The young man spoke at the same time, rather thick accent (french? maybe) carrying through his voice, looking down at his shirt and then to Luke—the vaguely upset expression giving way to an almost reluctant smile. “You can—“

“—about your coffee, I’ll get you another, really—“

“—can give me—“

“—really, it’s no trouble—“

“—give me your name and number?” He had finished speaking, and Luke was thrown for a loop. This man wanted _his_ number? No man had shown interest in him for a very long time, besides Alaric really, perhaps because he never made it appear as though he were looking—even after Jocelyn. 

“Yeah, I—“ A pause. The young man smiled as he continued, trying to appear nonchalant—trying not to cringe at the brown stain across the other man’s front. “I’m Luke. Garroway. Luke Garroway. I can put my number in your phone.”

He did—put his number in, that is—before grabbing some napkins to dab at the rather average sized mess he’d made across the floor. For some reason, when he stood up to look at the young man, his heart may have beat a little faster. No one needed to know. “How will I know who’s calling me? What’s yours?” Luke grimaced. “Your name?”

He smiled back at Luke’s fatalistic expression—dark eyes radiating sunshine. “Gabriel. Laurent. Gabriel Laurent, Luke Garroway. I’ll call you.”

And when Luke eventually made it to Ollie, with two Colombian blends, and lots of extra sugar packets—he’d already received a call. 

It was a date.

* * *

Despite the challenges, despite the risks associated with falling for a mundane, Luke had managed. 

Now, as he lays beneath his deep blue sheets—warm body next to him and so in love, he knows he’d have it no other way.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for validating me if you actually read this. the story is going to be told in a series of one shots.


End file.
